Two bodies,
Moulded, carved, painted
Like when the,
Tip of the leaf,
Moving back and forth,
Singing lullabies,
Floating on the water.
Like when the,
Army of ants,
Struggling, but
With the hope of the myth,
That they would make it,
With the small
Yet heavy piece of crumble.
Like when the,
Roots beneath the earth,
Digging for warmth,
Curls itself, with
The soft layer of soil.
Like when the,
The liquid,
Coming in contact,
With the solid,
As solid,
Coming in contact,
With the gas,
Two people,
Like all the above,
Moulded, carved, painted,
Are faced with
The intense exposure of,
Inexplicable escacity.
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YOU ARE READING
Voice Of The Heart
PoetryThe place that I live, is inside my head. And the only place apart from that, is in a piece of paper. There's no in-between. | I think, you feel. I I write, you imagine. I I bleed, you heal.
